“THE FLYING TERMS.”
It was a Thursday night; and the rooms of the “Union” were crowded,
for the debate was to be opened by a popular member. A few men were
in the reading-rooms, indifferent to the subject and its mover; a
few were in the writing-room, hurrying over their letters, in order
to be in time for the “private business,” which is usually the most
amusing part of the evening’s proceedings. There were several important
telegrams posted in the Hall, and the stopping of members to read them
considerably added to the general confusion. Ladies were hurrying
upstairs to the little uncomfortable gallery,[9] with amused looks
of curiosity, or the calm equanimity of accustomed visitors. No one
to-night waited to read, either for edification or for amusement,
the endless notices of those private tutors, to whom advertisement
seems a dire necessity--those manifestos of all shades, pleading,
peremptory, apologetic, confidential, and confident, which suggest the
question:--“Where are the pupils, to be instructed by these willing and
anxious instructors?”
The steward’s room is in possession of two attendants only, for the
steward and his indefatigable son are upstairs in the committee-room,
in attendance upon the committee.
It is eight o’clock, and the debating-room is crammed. Every seat is
filled; but those for whom there are not seats are quite content to
stand. The gallery is fringed with women’s faces, looking down upon the
mass of men below. There is a murmur of suppressed conversation, which
suddenly ceases on the cry of “Order.” The president enters, followed
by the treasurer, librarian, and most of the members of the committee.
He is in evening dress--the exception and not the rule; in his case it
is the sign of honour. He has been dining, for the first time, at the
High table of the college which has just elected him Fellow. To-night
is his first public appearance since his election, and, being a popular
man and officer, he is loudly cheered. The officers seat themselves,
and in a moment the president rises and proclaims “Order,” and the
business of the evening commences. He first reads a list of those
members of the University proposed for election, and those already
elected, and then calls upon the librarian to bring forth his list
of books. That officer, a big-headed, ungainly man, with a squint,
hurries through a list, to which prices and particulars are appended,
and then asks any, who wish, to challenge any book or books. If any are
challenged, they are temporarily withdrawn from the list, and the rest
are put to the vote and carried; after which the objections are made to
the particular books before challenged, and are met by the librarian
with considerable ability, and the books, with one exception, carried.
He then rises to propose “That ‘The Gorgon Head’ (much laughter), by
Mr. Tennyson Jones, presented by the author to the library, be accepted
by the society, and that a vote of thanks be given to the honourable
member for his present.”
No one wishing to challenge this proposition, it is formally put and
carried, with faint cheering.
The president then rises: “Does any honourable member wish to put any
question to the officers of this society relative to their official
duties?”
At least a dozen members rise in different parts of the room--we beg
pardon--the House.
A red-headed young gentleman, with spectacles, catches first the
president’s eye, and is put in possession of the House. His voice is
high and shrill.
“Sir--”
“Hear! hear!” from several facetious members encouragingly.
“Sir--I wish to ask the honourable treasurer--(loud cries of ‘Speak up,
sir’)--I wish to ask the honourable treasurer--”
“Hear! hear!” from a stentorian voice in one corner.
“Order! order!”
“Sir,” again resumes the luckless red-headed inquirer, “I--I--have
lost my umbrella. I--I--put it in the stand on Wednesday
evening--(‘Hear! hear!’)--on my way to--to--the smoking-room,
and--and--and--it was not there when I came back.” And the speaker
drops into his seat.
The treasurer takes no notice, but the president rises and says:--“I
must remind the honourable member that any statement he may have to
make must be introduced or followed by a question.”
The owner of the lost umbrella rises, and before he has opened his
mouth is told to “speak up.” This time he does speak up, in very
shrillness: “I wish to ask the honourable treasurer whether he will
take some steps for the recovery of my umbrella.”
The treasurer is a stout youth, short of speech and of stature. He
clips his sentences: “I must remind the honourable member that this
society is not a police institution. I regret the loss of his umbrella.
I regret still more that there are members in this society so careless
or so dishonest as to remove umbrellas not belonging to them.”
“Sir”--from another corner--“I consider the answer of the honourable
treasurer most unsatisfactory. I now beg to ask him whether he will
take steps to prevent the robbery--(‘Oh! oh!’)--yes--robbery of the
property of members of this society.”
The treasurer is again on his legs: “In answer to the last honourable
member, I beg to say that as far as I know anything of the funds of
this society, it is not in a position to pay for policemen to guard
the umbrellas of honourable members. If honourable members value their
umbrellas, I should recommend them to leave them in the steward’s room,
or carry them with them into whichever of the society’s rooms they may
go.”
“Sir”--from another quarter--“will you move for a committee of inquiry
into the loss of umbrellas and other property?” (Loud cheers.)
By this time the treasurer is white-hot:--“No, sir!” and he flumps into
his chair--(loud cheers from the treasurer’s partisans and from the
admirers of his doggedness). He is not, however, yet done with.
“I beg to ask the honourable treasurer,” says a grimy-looking youth,
“why there are so few nail-brushes in the lavatory?” (Roars of
laughter.)
“In answer to the honourable member,” says the treasurer, “I beg to
state that I have already given orders for a fresh and--as they seem so
much in request--a still larger supply.” (Cheers.)
Then there is a brief space of silence.
“Does any other honourable member wish to put any questions to the
officers of this society relative to their official duties?”
No one rising, the president says--
“The House will now proceed to public business;” and after waiting a
few seconds, to give those who wish the chance to leave, he reads from
a notice-board,--
“The motion before the House is, ‘That the present Ministry is unworthy
of the confidence of this House and of the nation,’ moved by Mr.
Dubber, of Trinity.”
There is a perfect uproar as Mr. Dubber rises and moves towards the
table--cheers from his supporters, groans from his opponents; but he
is too accustomed to the temper of his audience to take any notice. He
pours out a glass of water and leisurely drinks half the contents, and
waits confidently. His confidence commands attention; and in a clear,
ringing voice, he proceeds to rattle away a clever _résumé_ of the
stump speeches of his political party. There is no lack to-night of
speakers. No less than six rise directly he sits down.
And so the debate goes on unflaggingly until half-past ten, when, there
being no more speakers, the mover replies; and then the president reads
the motion once more, and says,--
“Those who are in favour of this motion will say ‘Aye;’ those who are
against it will say ‘No.’”
There are nearly 500 members present, and the noise may be imagined.
“The ‘Noes’ have it,” is the president’s ruling.
“Divide! divide!” from the “Ayes;” and the president accordingly gives
the order,--
“Those who are in favour of this motion will go to the right of the
chair; those who are against it to the left.”
Then follows a scene of indescribable confusion. In about ten minutes’
time the numerous tellers have agreed, and the president reads the
numbers,--
“Those who are in favour of this motion, 179; those who are against it,
290. The motion is therefore lost.”
Loud cheers, and the House separates.
Within a few days of the commencement of term, Frank had found his
name posted for rowing--that is, for rowing under the direction of the
senior men who were coaching the likely freshmen for the Torpid races,
which would come off in the ensuing Lent Term; and he took so kindly
to the work that he was soon regularly among the recognized set from
which the crew would eventually be picked. In fact, his performances
had attracted the notice of the president of the University Boat Club,
and he had been “down” with the men who were being coached with a view
to rowing against Cambridge. This was indeed an honour; and he strained
every energy to get chosen for one of the Trial Eights that were to
race at the end of term, and from which the University Eight (commonly
called “the ’Varsity”) would be selected.
His wishes were fulfilled, and he was put No. 6 in what was supposed
to be the better of the two boats. This, of course, insured his rowing
in his College Torpid next term, and in his College Eight in the summer
term, and it might have led to a seat in “the ’Varsity.”
As a matter of fact, it did not; but Frank was well content with the
honour of merely rowing in the “Trials,” and more especially as the
Eight in which he was rowing won the race in November. Towards the
close of term he was made a Freemason, and very proud he was to tell
his father, himself a Mason of some distinction, the various gossip
of his lodge, “The Apollo,” which claims among its members some of
England’s best-known brethren.
One other little distinction Frank had to relate on going down for
the Christmas vacation, and that was the flattering notice, in the
_Undergraduate’s Journal_, of a poem of his which had appeared in
the University magazine, _College Rhymes_;[10] and it may safely be
asserted that no one in Porchester was prouder of the poet than the
vicar’s daughter, who saw herself reflected in the mirror of his verse.
The Christmas vacation passed. Lent Term came, and with it the
Torpids. Paul’s made five bumps, and Frank duly posted copies of the
_Undergraduate’s Journal_, which recorded the fact, to the vicarage and
to his home. But with this proud event he abandoned for the present
most of his amusements, confined himself to the practice for the Eights
which were coming off in May, and to his work for Moderations, which
was fixed for about the same date. The college lectures not being
sufficient, he found himself obliged to “put on a coach”--_i.e._ employ
a private tutor--during the summer term; but when he got his “testamur”
in June, just a week before Commemoration, he and his father both felt
that the ten guineas[11] had been profitably expended.